


Lips, Dips, and Chocolate Chips

by tollofthebells



Series: Art Trade and Gift Fics [5]
Category: Dragon Age (Video Games), Dragon Age: Inquisition
Genre: Flirting, Fluff, Fluff and Humor, Humor, Multi
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-01-07
Updated: 2019-01-07
Packaged: 2019-10-05 20:10:58
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,430
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17331566
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/tollofthebells/pseuds/tollofthebells
Summary: Inquisitor Fenrir Lavellan invites Hela Lavellan--cousin and notorious flirt--to Skyrim for the first time. Introductions and eyelash-batting ensue.





	Lips, Dips, and Chocolate Chips

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Galaxy_Raven](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Galaxy_Raven/gifts).



“It’s cold here,” Hela comments, padding her feet along the stone bridge connecting the harsh mountainside to the looming castle before them, finally having reached their destination after seeing it grow and grow before their eyes as they traveled from where he’d met her in the forests of Ferelden through wooded paths alongside the mountains and finally up the slopes and across snow. 

_Cold_. As though the two cousins hadn’t been trudging through ice and snowfall for days, feet clad only in the cloth footwraps of their clan, steadfast and unyielding through winter terrain but _this bridge is “cold.”_

“It’s warmer at Skyhold,” Fenrir tells her, and she doesn’t ask why. _Of course she doesn’t._ In a time where Tevinter magisters rise from the dead and demons walk the land and her cousin carries a mark on her hand that’s the only power capable of closing the entrances from their world to the next, why _wouldn’t_ a castle high up in the snowy Frostbacks be warm? Of _course_ it is.

When they finally reach the end of the bridge and cross the great gate into the courtyard of the keep, she finds that it is, in fact, warm. A light breeze—so different from the icy winds that had pelted at them for most of their journey—tickles the green grasses at her feet, rustles the bronze and red and gold leaves of the trees that grew along the stone walls of the castle, and any snow squalls that had peppered their travels seem far away and nonexistent under the gentle rays of daytime sunlight.

“What do you think?” he asks her, watching as she takes in the massive towers, the formidable ramparts dotted with soldiers and guards running errands or simply making their rounds for the afternoon. The yard before them bustles with troops and recruits training, sharpening their weapons, conversing amicably as scouts and agents crisscross the grounds carrying scrolls and books and important messages to different parts of the keep. She has no words, and he chuckles. “You’ll have plenty of time to find your answer,” he tells her when she grins at him, starry-eyed but still wordless, “because I have a lot of people I want you to meet in the meantime.”

“I’ve heard so much _about_ all of them,” she says as he leads her up the towering stone staircase along one of the walls. “I can’t believe I finally have the opportunity to _meet_ them!”

Fenrir’s all smiles—they both are—as they reach their first destination: a tower standing tall and commanding along the walls of the keep and with a good view of the courtyard below. But when he reaches to open the door before them, they’re answered with gruff shouts and complaining from inside.

“—told you to deliver those reports to _Leliana_ , not _Josephine_!!” a tall, blond man grumbles, pacing quickly back and forth before a trembling scout as Fenrir and Hela enter, so caught up frustration that he doesn’t notice them come in. “Maker’s _breath_ , Jim, those were important reports about scout movements across the Fallow Mire!” Hela snorts a laugh, watching him all red-faced and flustered and upset, but he still doesn’t take note. “What in Andraste’s name would Josephine do with them?”

“Ser, I—” the scout tries, but the man throws up his hands in defeat, interrupting him.

“It was rhetorical, Jim. Go back and retrieve them from Josephine’s office and bring them straight to Lel—no, bring them back here. Maker’s breath, if you want something done right around here, you have to do it your—”

“Commander,” the scout—Jim—attempts a second time. “Ser you have—the Inquisitor—”

The commander’s head snaps up, and his face reddens. “Fenrir!” he stammers, waving Jim out of his office. “I didn’t notice—that is, I hadn’t seen—” He looks from Fenrir to Hela and back. “I’d forgotten your cousin was arriving today. Forgive me, I didn’t—how long were you…?”

Hela bursts into giggles, and Fenrir smiles slyly and the growing blush growing on the commander’s face. “Not _too_ long, Cullen,” he says kindly, “but it looks like you’re a bit...preoccupied. Hela and I can come back another time, if that’s better.”

“I, uh...yes,” he says, shuffling and stacking papers on his desk, finally breaking away under Hela’s curious stare. “Later. Perhaps that would be best.”

“Excellent!” says Fenrir cheerfully, opening a door on the wall adjacent from the one they’d entered through. “We’re off then.”

Cullen nods, giving the two of them an awkward wave as they exit, but just as they pass over the threshold, Hela spins around, pressing her fingers to her lips and blowing him a kiss. “Don’t worry, _Commander_ ,” she says, batting her eyelashes at him. “We’ll come back!”

She shuts the door before he can offer any response—although the brief couple of minutes she’d spent seeing him reduced to a blushing wreck over a couple well placed smiles told her he wouldn’t have one anyway—and she and Fenrir collapse into giggles out on the battlements.

“Well _he’s_ a bit jumpy,” she laughs, and he nods, and they begin to make their way over the bridge that crosses into the main part of the keep. “You always made him sound very serious in your letters.”

“He is,” he replies with a shrug. “He just doesn’t do well around unfamiliar people. Especially girls.”

They open the door at the end of the bridge to a rotund office and a thick wave of air thick with the smells of oil paints and turpentine.

“Creators, Solas,” Fenrir coughs, holding the door for Hela, who’s wisely brought a hand over her nose. “You should really crack the door open when you’re painting!”

“Hello to you too, lethallin,” answers an elf—Solas, he’d called him—from a high platform above them. He sets his palette down, wipes his hands on a cloth, and descends the ladder to greet them. “And this must be your cousin?” he asks when he stands before them, offering a polite smile.

“Yes!” Fenrir nods proudly. “This is Hela.”

Solas bows slightly, smiles still. “Well. Hello, Hela.”

 _He bowed_. And so Hela sinks into deep curtsy, it’s a shem move, she’s _teasing_ , looking up at him before finally rising back up, straightening. “Aneth ara, Solas,” she purrs.

He raises one eyebrow at her, and she smirks, but neither has time to say anything more because they’re interrupted by rushed footsteps, somebody rapidly descending the stairs.

“Is that _you_ I heard, amatus?” a voice calls, and Fenrir _beams_.

 _Amatus_ , Hela thinks, _a Tevene word, so this must be—_

“Maker’s breath,” gasps a dark-haired man, appearing at the bottom of the staircase and instantly clapping a hand over his mustache. “I can’t believe Leliana’s birds haven’t dropped dead from these fumes by now.”

“Dorian!” Fenrir says with a grin, ignoring his comment and throwing his arms around him.

“Oh!” Dorian says, smiling—or at least Hela thinks he’s smiling; it’s hard to tell with his mouth covered—at the hug but ultimately stepping aside, taking Fenrir’s hand with his free hand and placing it back over his nose. “Thank you, amatus, but I’d much prefer you save yourself. Don’t let Solas gas you on my account.”

“Don’t be ridiculous,” says Fenrir, putting an arm around both Dorian and Hela and ushering them out of the room, flashing Solas a quick wave goodbye as they leave. “It’s awful, but it’s just paints. Hela and I seemed to survive, even if it was just a few minutes.”

Hela giggles, and Dorian whips around Fenrir to see her. “Hela!” he exclaims. “You’re here!”

“It’s nice to meet you, too, Dorian,” she laughs, and he takes her by the hand and spins her around. 

“So _rude_ of Fenrir not to properly introduce us,” he pouts teasingly, pulling her into a dip and grinning down at her. “But you’re lovely! I can see why he hasn’t invited you to Skyhold before this. I’ve heard you’re a bit of a flirt, too—you’ll make _some_ men around here into a wreck when you meet them, I’m sure, and—”

“Already did,” says Fenrir with a smile, tapping him in the shoulder and prompting him to straighten both of them once more. “Now stop showing off. We have other people to meet—we can catch up more over dinner.”

“‘Showing off?’” Dorian repeats, wounded. “ _Me?!_ ”

“Oh, _stop_ it,” Fenrir laughs, taking Hela by the hand once more. “I’m going to take her to the tavern. Meet you there later?”

“Well, I don’t know,” huffs Dorian, “I wouldn’t want to be _showing off_ too much in front of your cousin, so—”

“Great, we’ll see you then!” Fenrir interrupts him, waving goodbye and leading Hela out of the grand hall and outside once more. The sun has started to set now, and it casts a warm honey glow over the courtyard of Skyhold as they descend the front staircases. But before they can reach the bottom, Hela stops.

“He makes you happy, doesn’t he?” she asks, and he looks at her, curious for her sudden serious tone, her concern.

“He does,” he answers, and she gives him a small smile. 

“And...you’re all right here?” she asks. “Really?”

“Yes,” he says quickly, and she searches his eyes for lies, uncertainty. His gaze does not waves, but still, she raises her eyebrows. “Well,” he starts again, slowly this time, she knew. “It’s not easy. It’s not always good. But...I couldn’t ask for a better group of people here with me. They’re all good people. Dorian, all the rest of them. I trust them. We’ll get through this, all of us. So it’ll be okay.” He says it more to himself than to answer her, but for Hela, that’s enough. It’s what he needs, and it’s all she needed to hear.

“Well then,” she says, putting her hands on her hips, flashing that up-to-something grin. “Who do we have left?”

He returns her smile, small at first but then growing into a grin. “A lot more,” he says, “but I thought we’d stop by the tavern first. There are a couple of friends I think you’d really get along with and—Hela!” 

She’s already skipped ahead of him, down the remaining stairs and through the sun-warmed grasses of the yard. He’s hardly had time to catch up with when she’s reached the heavy oak door of the tavern, throwing it open letting the setting sunshine pour into the dimly lit barroom. “ _Eager_ ,” he jokes, poking her in the side as he follows her in and closes the door behind him. “Now,” he begins, scanning the room for familiar faces. Krem and the Chargers seemed to be in a dispute over cards in one corner. Cole was nowhere to be found, _as usual_ , probably hidden away upstairs.

Fortunately, Bull was in his normal spot, alone—for once—and sipping back an unsurprisingly questionable liquid from a dark bottle. “Hela,” he says, putting his arm around her shoulders and leading her to the back where he sat. “I’d like you to meet the Inquisition’s very own Qunari ally, _the_ Iron Bull.”

Bull perks up at their approach, hearing his name from Fenrir. “Boss,” he greets him, nodding at Hela. “Your cousin?”

“Yes,” replies Fenrir happily, patting Hela on the shoulder. _She’s never seen a Qunari_ , he knows, and yet he also knows she’s not one to be easily taken aback. True to herself, she smiles brightly, holding out a hand.

“‘The Iron Bull,’” she repeats, tasting the name thoughtfully as he shakes her hand. “Dare I ask…?”

Bull shrugs, grins, gestures at the horns atop his head. “It’s a name that sticks,” he laughs, and Hela winks at him flirtatiously.

“Well,” she says, “you know what they say about big horns.”

His grin widens, and Fenrir shifts from foot to foot. “Maybe I do. Couldn’t hurt to hear a reminder, though.”

“They say that—”

“I don’t think we need a reminder!” Fenrir intervenes, stepping between the two of them. “We’ve still got plenty of people to see! Sera’s right upstairs, anyway, so we could just—”

“I get it, boss,” Bull says, leaning back in his chair and crossing his arms behind his head. “You two go on ahead. But, uh, Hela...are you doing anything later tonight?”

She smiles deviantly at him. “Depends,” she says. “Are _you_ doing anything later tonight?”

Bull nods slowly, quietly, smiling back. “I like you,” he says. “Hey, boss. I like her.”

“I’m glad, Bull,” Fenrir says, ushering Hela away and up the stairs. “And I’m sure you’ll have plenty of time to get to know her—later.”

They’re welcomed upstairs by a sweet, sugary scent, warm and buttery and reminding Hela suddenly of how hungry she was. The sun out the window had nearly set completely now, and it _would_ be dinnertime soon. But first, _Sera_.

“Just this way,” says Fenrir, leading her along the rails that looked down on the first floor until they reached a little corner room, small and colorful and still letting in the remainder of the pink sunset peer into the many windows beside which a short, blonde elf sat, a plate of treats beside her.

“Sera?” Fenrir asks, “remember when I told you my cousin was visiting? Well...this is her. Hela.”

Hela _stares_. Nearly as much as she had stared at the castle around them when they’d first arrived at Skyhold. Everything in the room is so pleasant—books stacked high and piled around the floor, unread, most likely, cushions of every shape and color along the windows and across the little nook. Even the fresh breeze floating through the window seemed sweet, seemed lovely. And Sera. Freckled and grinning and devilishly happy—just like herself. She smiles back at her but says nothing.

“Cookie for your thoughts?” Sera asks with a wink, and Fenrir narrows his eyes at her suspiciously.

“I’m not sure if she’s going to want one,” he says thoughtfully, teasing her, eyeing the way Hela stood at a loss for words. “I may have told her about the last time you baked in one of my letters.”

Sera shrugs, not taking her eyes off Hela. “Ditched the raisins this time, Quizzy,” she says in a sing-song voice. “These are chocolate chip.”

Hela grins. Her gaze locks onto Sera’s, equally sly, equally mischievous as she pulls a single cookie off the plate.

“Thanks, _Sera_ ,” she says slowly, bringing the cookie to her mouth and taking a bite. “I’d love one.”

**Author's Note:**

> by far the most dialogue-driven piece I’ve written in a longggggg time so be kind with me


End file.
